feeling the same pain. That was the only thing that had always had enough power to worm its way past, under, over, around the treacherous fogs that did their best to bury all his memories in merciful darkness.
His legs began to fall asleep as he lay stretched out on the cot, but he ignored the signals from his body and stubbornly refused to budge from the spot. If he moved, he might lose control over the colours that covered the wall and have to stare at bare ugliness again.
In more lucid moments, he could see some humour, or at least irony, in it all. The fact that he was born with an insatiable need for beauty, at the same time that he was condemned to a life of filth and squalor. Perhaps his fate was already written in the stars when he was born, perhaps his fate was rewritten on that ill-fated day.
If only. Many times his thoughts had run in circles around this ‘if’, playing with the thought of what his life would have been like if. Maybe a good and honourable life, with family, a home, and art as a source of joy instead of despair. Children playing in the garden outside his studio while fragrant aromas wafted from the kitchen. The very height of a Carl Larsson idyll, with a rosy glow round the edges of the fantasy. And Alex was always in the midst of this tableau. Always in the centre, with him like a planet circling round and round her.
His fantasies always made him feel warm inside, but suddenly the warm image was replaced with a cold one, with bluish tones and icy chill. He knew this image well. For many nights he’d been able to study it in peace and quiet so that he knew it down to the smallest detail. The blood was what he feared the most. The red, which stood in sharp contrast to the blue. Death was also there, as usual. He lurked along the edges, rubbing his hands in delight. Waiting for him to make his move, do something, anything at all. The only thing he could do was pretend not to see Death. Ignore him until he disappeared. Perhaps then the image could regain its rosy glow. Perhaps Alex could once again smile at him, the smile that tugged and tore at his guts. But Death was a much too familiar companion to be ignored. It was many years now that they had known each other, and the acquaintance had not grown more pleasant with the years. Even in the brighter moments he had shared with Alex, Death had wedged in between them, insistent, importunate.
The silence in the cell was comforting. In the distance he could hear the sound of people moving about, but they seemed so far away that they might be in another world. Not until he heard one of the sounds approaching did he snap out of his dream state. Footsteps in the corridor, steadily approaching his cell door. The rattle of the lock and then the door swung open and the fat little superintendent appeared in the doorway. Listlessly, Anders swung his legs over the edge of the cot and put his feet on the floor. Time for interrogation. Might as well get it over with.
The bruises had begun to fade enough that she could try covering them with a good layer of powder. Anna looked at her face in the mirror. She looked worn and harried. Without make-up she could clearly see the blue contours under her skin. One eye was still a bit bloodshot. Her blonde hair was dull and lifeless and in need of a trim. She hadn’t got round to booking a new appointment with the hairdresser; she simply never had the energy. All her strength went into taking care of the children’s daily needs and seeing to it that she kept her head up. How did things ever get to this point?
She pulled back her hair in a tight ponytail and laboriously got dressed as she tried to avoid moving in a way that would make her ribs hurt. Before, he used to be careful to hit her only in places that could be hidden by clothing, but during the past six months he had stopped being careful and had repeatedly struck her in the face.
But the beating wasn’t the worst of it. It was having always to live under the threat of future blows, waiting for the next time, the next fist. The cruellest thing was that he was well aware of this and played on her fear. He would raise his hand to strike her and then switch over to a caress and a smile. Sometimes he hit her for no apparent reason. Right out of the blue. Not because he needed much of a reason, but in the middle of a discussion about what to buy for dinner, or which TV programme they should watch, his fist might suddenly fly out and catch her in the stomach, on the head, on her back, or wherever else he aimed. Then he would continue the conversation without for a moment losing his train of thought, as if nothing had happened, as she lay on the floor gasping for breath. It was the feeling of power that he enjoyed.
Lucas’s clothes lay scattered all over the bedroom; she arduously picked up the clothes, one by one, and hung them up on hangers or put them in the laundry basket. When the bedroom was once again in perfect order she went to check on the children. Adrian was sleeping peacefully on his back with his dummy in his mouth. Emma sat playing quietly in her bed, and Anna stood a moment in the doorway watching her. She was so much like Lucas. The same determined, angular face and ice-blue eyes. The same stubbornness.
Emma was one of the reasons she couldn’t stop loving Lucas. Not loving him would feel like denying a part of Emma. He was a part of their daughter, and because of that, a part of Anna as well. He was also a good father to the children. Adrian was still too little to understand, but Emma worshipped Lucas, and Anna simply couldn’t take her away from her father. How could she take the children away from half of their security, rip up everything that was familiar and important to them? Instead she had to try to be strong enough for all of them; then they would be able to get through this. Things weren’t like that in the beginning. Things could be good again. As long as she was strong. After all, he told her that he really didn’t want to hit her, that it was for her own good, because she didn’t do what she was supposed to do. If only she could make more of an effort, be a better wife. She didn’t understand him, he said. If only she could find what made him happy, if only she could do the right things so that he didn’t have to be so disappointed in her all the time.
Erica didn’t understand. Erica with her independence and her solitude. Her courage and her overwhelming, stifling solicitude. Anna could hear the contempt in Erica’s voice, and it drove her mad. What did she know about the responsibility for keeping a marriage and a family going? About carrying a load on her shoulders that was so heavy she could barely stand upright. The only thing Erica had to worry about was herself. She’d always been such a know-it-all. Her excessive maternal concern for Anna had sometimes threatened to suffocate her. She had felt Erica’s restless, watching eyes following her everywhere, when all she wanted was to be left in peace. What did it matter if their mother never managed to care for them? They had Pappa, at least. One out of two wasn’t so bad. The difference between her and Erica was that she accepted things, while Erica was always trying to find a reason. More often than not, Erica also turned the questions inward and tried to find the reason inside herself. That was why she had always exerted herself too much. Anna, on the other hand, chose not to exert herself at all. It was easier not to worry, to go with the flow and take one day at a time. That was why she felt such bitterness towards Erica. She worried and fretted over her younger sister, coddling her, and that made it even harder for Anna to close her eyes to the truth and the people around her. Moving out of her parents’ house had been so liberating. When she then met Lucas soon afterwards, she thought she had finally found the only person who could love her just as she was and, above all, respect her need for freedom.
She smiled bitterly as she cleaned the table after Lucas’s breakfast. Freedom? She no longer even knew how to spell the word. Her life consisted of the space inside this flat. It was only the children who made it possible for her even to breathe, the children and the hope that if she found the right formula, the right answer, then everything could be the way it used to be.
In slow motion she placed the lid on the butter tub, put the cheese in a plastic bag, inserted the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and wiped off the table. When everything was shiny and clean, Anna sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and looked around the room. The only sound was Emma’s childish prattle from the nursery, and for a few minutes Anna allowed herself to enjoy a little peace and quiet. The kitchen was bright and airy, decorated in a tasteful combination of wood and stainless steel. They had spared no expense on the appliances, which meant that Philip Starck and Poggenpohl were the dominant brand-names. Anna
